


The Sickness Unto Death

by radishface



Series: Chapter X [1]
Category: K-pop, Produce 101 (TV), Wanna One (Band)
Genre: Angst, But I know it’s hard to give up once you’ve had a taste of the peach, Clubbing, Drunken Confessions, Drunkenness, Flashbacks, Future Fic, Gen, Get over it Ong, M/M, Slow Burn, Zero Base shenanigans
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-08
Updated: 2018-02-10
Packaged: 2019-03-02 01:07:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,447
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13307178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/radishface/pseuds/radishface
Summary: “You lift your head, enough to see, enough to show him a little neck, gleaming from the sweat, enough so that if you turn to talk, your lips will brush up against Daniel’s ear, enough so that when you talk, you can whine the 'ah' in Da-niel’s name and draw it out. An implication. A dirty word.”Ong Seongwoo really wants to stop drinking, he does. But how else will he get away with bad behavior?Set ten years after the events of Produce 101. A sequel toScientific Methods. Just because you’re  older doesn’t mean you’re wiser.





	1. The Lush

**Author's Note:**

> **Prequel** | [Scientific Methods](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12723912/chapters/29298495)

 

* * *

 January 2028

* * *

 

 

You have a few rules around drinking. One, you only drink when there’s a reason. Two, you never drink by yourself. And three, you don’t drink alone.

 

Drinking is a social activity, and a drink is something that is meant to be shared. Your favorite times drinking are when you’re out with your coworkers after set and sometimes with the revelry and the noise and camaraderie, goddamn, it can be better than sex.

 

Look at Ong Seongwoo, they’ll say. Always willing to make a crack at somebody, but look at him now, smashed beyond all goodwill and grabbing people’s butts. Look at him make a fool of himself.

 

You like it when they laugh.

 

Half of you enjoys the frivolity. The other half of you keeps itself clear. Focused on the act of being a fool.

 

You’ve wrapped up filming for the latest season of _If It Were Only_ , your newest romantic drama series. It’s a cold January night, so all of you arrived at the club in your overcoats. By the third minute there, you’ve all taken your coats off. From there on, it’s a flurry of loose ties and untucked shirts grinding up against Hervé dresses and bare legs.

 

Welcome to the Velvet Underground, Seoul’s best kept secret.

 

The lushest. The most decadent. A fairly underground sort of establishment located in the basement of an otherwise unremarkable Tier II shopping mall in Gangnam. One out of every five attendees at the bar is female, which used to make you feel uncomfortable until you realized that women feel even more comfortable and less inhibited in gay bars.

 

If they were looking, there wasn’t any reason you couldn’t look, too. And that’s why Velvet Underground is Seoul’s best kept secret.

 

  
There are rules here too. Like, what happens at the Velvet Underground stays in the Velvet Underground. Or at least, that’s what your coworkers tells you, with earnest expressions that verge just enough on the border of sober to ring true.

 

You flutter from booth to booth. _Ong_ , a few people recognize you, blow you kisses. Everything is hilarious. The DJ is fucking things up, and the lights are out of sync with the music, but it doesn’t matter. No one is paying attention.

 

It’s intermittently dark, and you like it that way.

 

You make your way to the bartender, whose face has taken on an eerie glow (due to the neon lights) and eerie proportions (due to your drunkness). The fucker remembers who you are, and pours you two shots on the house. You down one immediately, relishing the burn in your throat. Fire in a glass, fire in your throat, burning a hole in your belly. You don’t want to extinguish it. You want to spread it around. Light the whole place up in flames.

 

That’s all you want. You forget about the world, what it demands of you, and only think about fire.

 

You carry the other shot past the squirming, heaving crowds, past the stench of sweat and the grinding of bodies and through the spastic lights, and you bring the other shot to Kang Daniel.

 

Kang Daniel, sitting on a chaise lounge by himself, in the same position he’s been in since he arrived with the cast. During the last two hours, you’ve sent five shots his way, and he’s barely touched any of it.

 

“Niel-oooppa,” you slur, and slam a drink down on the arm of the chair. Some of it spills on your hand. “Join in the fun, you dance machine.”

 

Daniel turns his head up, maddeningly slow. “I’m okay,” he says in a moderate voice, over the din. “But thank you, Seongwoo.”

 

“Niel,” you say with every ounce of defiance you have in your body, standing up straight. Unfortunately, you stand too far up and begin to tilt backwards.

 

Daniel catches your hand and pulls you to sit next to him on the chaise lounge. “You, on the other hand,” he says, taking the shot glass off the arm rest with his free hand. “You’ve had too many, Ong.”

 

“Gimme,” you say, flitting your hands in his general direction.

 

“It’s too strong for you,” Daniel smiles. In this light, his teeth flash and it makes him look fierce, feral, faceable.

 

 _Easy_ , you tell yourself. _Go easy. Just take it slow. Give it time._

 

_Give it ten more fucking years._

 

You leer, burrowing into Daniel’s side. “You’re a waste of space, you know that? Who comes to a wrap party and doesn’t get trashed?"

 

“That’s not everyone’s idea of a good time,” Daniel shakes his head.

 

“Ya don’t say,” you grin. You make yourself look as cocky, as drunk as possible. Play this off for laughs. Let Daniel see the gleam in your eyes, let him infer for himself. You are drunk at this point. You are no longer responsible for your actions. “Well, excuse me.”

 

Daniel’s hand clamps down on your wrist. You suppress the smirk on your face. Kitty likes yarn. 

 

“Where are you going, Ong?” Daniel’s voice is even.

 

“Off ta the bar,” you say with equal amounts derision and good humor.

 

“I just saw you there.” Daniel’s grip tightens on your wrist. “You’re going home.”

 

“Can’t make me,” you taunt. It’s time to break out the kid. The petulant brat. Ah, it feels good. You haven’t let this out in a while. Let Daniel think you’re drunk. Let Daniel think he’s the reasonable one. That he can call you a cab and take you home and tuck you into bed because he’s the better guy. That he’s the benevolent one, that being nice to you has some kind of repentance clause attached to it.

 

Let Kang Daniel think that way. The man known as Ong Seongwoo is not going to stop him.

 

“Come on,” Daniel tugs, and you close your eyes, letting the music overtake you for a moment.

 

_Don’t. Don’t give in yet. Get your game back on. It’s not over._

 

“Yeah, well,” and you let yourself drop on Daniel’s shoulder, let yourself cling on for support. Daniel’s arm comes around your back, his hand pressed into your hip. He’s absurdly warm. You wonder where your coats are. You don’t mention it. There’s a certain path you’re going to take now, and you don’t want to interrupt it.

 

It’s the path that leads out of the basement. Up the hallway. Past the bouncer. To the street. Daniel won’t send you off on your own. Daniel will come with you, fucking responsible prick that he is.

 

You lift your head, enough to see, enough to show him a little neck, gleaming from the sweat, enough so that if you turn to talk, your lips will brush up against Daniel’s ear, enough so that when you talk, you can whine the “ah” in Da-niel’s name and draw it out. An implication. A dirty word.

 

Let Daniel think you’re drunk. Like that one time. And that other time. And all the times before that when it worked.

 

Daniel’s called the cab and it puffs obediently outside the club, exhaust pipe jetting out small clouds of steam. Daniel talks to the cab driver. You lay down on Daniel, let your head rest uselessly on his thigh. Your fingers come up to his knee, scratching lightly. It’s meaningless.

 

Daniel’s breath catches, then comes faster. You drag your hand across the vertical length of his thigh, and Daniel’s hand comes down on yours. Stops you from reaching any further. 

 

“Don’t,” he rasps, voice rough like quicksand.

 

The ride continues in silence. You feel the tension grow like a thickening soup. You watch Daniel squirm as you look up at him. No, Daniel isn’t impervious. Not to the way you look at him. Not to alcohol. You know that underneath his bangs, there’s a tinge of red flushed high on his cheekbones. It’s inevitable.

 

Before the car comes to a stop, you pretend to be passed out. Daniel wriggles out from under you and gets out of the car. You feel the vibration of his footsteps on the ground. You feel it when he opens the door on your side. Daniel grabs you, sits you up, and then pulls you out of the car.

 

You’re not at your apartment.

 

You’re at Daniel’s.

 

This means his girlfriend isn’t here. Rare occasion. The doorman runs over to open the door for you, and in a sudden fit of decency you decide to remember how to walk again.

 

Until you get to Daniel’s flat, that is. Once you’re in through the door, it’s shoes off and face first on the couch. Your face pressed into the couch cushion, you can’t see a damn thing. But you hear a cat yowling somewhere. And you know Daniel is there at the other end, hands in his pockets. You know that Daniel is quivering with the effort to remain in control. To not stumble, to not fall, like you’ve just done. To not slur his words or appear otherwise inebriated in any way.

 

Daniel loves to kid himself. Daniel’s made a whole career out of kidding himself.

 

“We left our coats there,” Daniel says.

 

“F,” you mutter into the couch cushion.

 

“I should go back and get them.”

 

You curse, flipping yourself around so you face the ceiling instead. The lights above spin and spin. “Not worth it.”

 

“They’re expensive.”

 

“They’re gifted. Whatever, leave them.”

 

“ _Ongi_.”

 

It stabs your heart. It stabs your fucking heart, to hear him use that nickname for you. Like you’re still babies at the beginning of your careers and sleeping in dorm rooms, holding hands in the company cafeteria as you vow to both make it big one day.

 

You sit up carefully and look at Daniel. His weight is pressed back on his far foot, the one closer to the foyer. It’s 50-50, whether he’ll leave. You roll the dice. “Stop playing hard to get,” you say, riding the upswell of a bet placed right.

 

Daniel sits down on the edge of his chair. Bingo.

 

Silence again—this time, awkward and awake. You pretend to doze off. Throw one hand over your face, breathing heavily. The couch sags under your weight. Five minutes, one hundred breaths pass. Daniel relaxes again. You bet a million won that Daniel is looking at you now.

 

Another five minutes, another one hundred breaths. Daniel gets off the couch. Two minutes, forty breaths. Shower running. Sixty breaths and three minutes later, the shower is off. You pick yourself off the couch, and head to the bedroom.

 

Daniel is asleep, or seems to be. The covers are bunched up under his arms, and he’s not wearing a shirt. Moonlight streams in through the blinds. You kneel down by the bed, where he is. Hands clasped, like a boy saying his prayers.

 

Daniel opens his eyes. “What do you want?”

 

You smile. “What do you think?”

 

Daniel closes his eyes and shakes his head. “Ongi,” he whispers. “Not now.”

 

“Then when?” You hiss, and stand up. “You only talk to me like that, when I’m like this. This is supposed to be your fucking sanctuary. I’m gone in the morning, and you never have to remember, and we never have to talk about it. That’s the deal, right?”

 

“What do you want?”

 

“Just let me.”

 

Daniel squeezes his eyes shut. He’s drunk, too, even though he’s the one who brought you home and paid for the cab and walked you to the elevator. You can smell how drunk he is from where you are, centimeters from his face.

 

“You know I can’t,” Daniel says. He reaches out. His knuckles graze your cheek. His thumb lingers on your three-freckle constellation. You reach up and take his hand, interlacing your fingers together.

 

Daniel’s grip is strong. It’s the only way he knows how to hold hands. You squeeze his hand, run your fingers over his knuckles. With your thumb, you trace the veins on his wrist. You reach out with your other hand and trace the line of Daniel’s eyebrows. Over his eyelids, down his nose. You rub your thumb over his bottom lip. He doesn’t move.

 

Five minutes. One hundred breaths. Daniel’s grip on your hand loosens. His breath comes deep and easy. He’s asleep.

 

When Daniel’s asleep, it’s for real. Unlike you.

 

You kneel for a minute, just watching him breathe. You think about how it was, a lifetime ago. You think about how some things have changed, but how some things haven’t changed at all.

 

 _I want to fuck you, you think,_ squeezing your eyes shut. You feel in pain. You bite down on your lip to stave off the feeling. _The same way you’re fucking me right now. I want to hurt you as badly as you’ve made me hurt. I want to make your breath catch and feel your arms strain and beat you down and kill you with how much I want you. I don’t want you to be able to breathe except when I want you to. I want it really, totally, completely, absolutely, and I want it harder and faster and thicker and deeper, I want it I want it_

 

_I want it_

 

You stand up. Your knees pop, your joints crackle. You stretch, your blood purrs through your bones like a cat. You leave the room, shutting the door quietly behind you.

 

You step onto Daniel's balcony, icy air at odds with the humid, heavy, 4am feeling within you. You light a cigarette and fill your lungs with inky blackness, smoking it slowly, languorously, until a sliver of sun peeks up over the horizon, bathing the city in a haze of lavender pink.

 

 

* * *

 


	2. The Visitor

 

* * *

 

 

When you close your eyes, what comes to mind?

 

For the longest time, for me it was the image of him that summer, biting into a peach plucked fresh off the tree, juice dribbling down his chin. He would eat every peach like that. Like it was the first time he’d ever eaten a peach.

 

When I was growing up, my mother would insist that we spend our summers at my cousin’s place in the countryside. Her sister was married to an agriculturalist who fancied himself a painter as he neared retirement. I always thought them charmingly off-beat, like the kind of hippies you might find in a movie from the 1960s about San Francisco, except that they were also deeply devout Christians. While my cousin was something of a dull potato, probably the product of having parents who were too interesting for their own good, the summers I spent there were lush and carefree. They only got better when I got my license, as I had free reign of the mostly empty country roads.

 

These summers informed my stint on _The Hill Doctor_ as, you guessed it, The Hill Doctor. My first lead actor role in a period TV drama about a country doctor who administered help to patients in the countryside. Specifically, to defectors who were caught and tortured after trying to escape North Korea to China. The Hill Doctor himself was born on Baekdu Mountain, near Heaven’s Lake, married with a son, a good Communist cadre who one day found himself the unfortunate scapegoat of some political intrigue. The Hill Doctor was cancelled after one season due to tensing relations with our northern friends. For about two months, I got strange phone calls in the middle of the night. It’d be the first and last political TV, movie, anything that I’d do for the rest of my life.

 

To wash the bad taste of the series cancellation from my mouth and get away from the phone calls, I decided to take a three month creative sabbatical in the country. What better place than my cousin’s old haunt in the countryside? My agency agreed to put me on leave and my travels were arranged.

 

The place those days was overrun with my uncle’s paintings. My aunt had turned into something of a ceramicist herself. She had a potter’s wheel in the backyard, though she had to journey into town for the nearest kiln. My potato of a cousin had long moved south to Busan with her husband, so it was just me and my uncle and auntie for a while. After about a week of idyllic countryside bliss, I was getting bored of watching the wind blow through the barley stalks and trying to write a screenplay which refused to come together.

 

“Could I invite a guest?” I was staying in the backyard guesthouse, but was happy to move up to my cousin’s old room.

 

“You’re not married, so she’ll have to stay outside,” my auntie said. She gave me a knowing grin that said she didn’t really care where anyone would stay. 1960s hippies.

 

“I don’t have any loose lady friends,” I lied. “I only consort with upstanding young ladies and gentlemen.”

 

I tried a few phone numbers — my old dance crew were first in the queue. A few of them were conscripted and couldn’t make it; a few others couldn’t take the time off work. They had stayed with me there before, when we were all younger, before an incredible fame blew me away into the stratosphere and things became more or less strained. You can’t go home again, as the old saying goes.

 

By the time the fifth person from my old crew had made some excuse or another, I realized that I had been using them to dance around the invitation I really wanted to send. I imagined myself as the Hill Doctor, ready to enter the sham of a trial, walked in by Party Members in thickly starched olive-colored suits.

 

“Kang Daniel,” I said, when he said hello on the other end.

 

He recognized my voice right away. It had been some months since we spoke. Both busy with our new schedules, no chance to catch up in between. But he was wrapping up a comedy series in about a week, did I know? Yes, I did know, but I told him I didn’t, and did he have to start anything else after filming wrapped up?

 

“It’ll be a month or so before promotions start. And to be honest, I’m a bit worn out. I need a break.”

 

Peter had passed away the year prior, but Rooney was still alive and kicking. I told him to bring the cat and get some country air.

 

He sounded excited. “You’ve told me about your cousin’s place in the country. And you really have pear trees?”

 

I told him it was a peach grove, even though I’d never seen it. Mental note: something to investigate in advance of Daniel’s arrival.

 

“I need some time to get back into you,” he said. “My parents usually expect me to visit them during my breaks.”

  
I remember that I had made his mother laugh when I first met her, but that her impression of me had quickly cooled after our initial meeting. It made me try even harder to get on her good side, but she was suspicious. Well, I’d be suspicious too.

 

Over the phone, I told him to take his time. But my heart raced like a stupid person’s.

 

The next day, he called me back and told me he’d be coming. When I finished the call, I felt the urge to go and wash my face. I resisted, but only barely.

 

 

* * *

 

 

  
When Daniel arrived, he was wearing a black tracksuit and a black baseball cap with studs through it. In his hand was a duffel bag with trademark Yohji Yamamoto x Adidas stripes and a bright green and pink cat carrier.

 

“That looks like a watermelon,” I said. From inside the watermelon came a meow.

 

“You look good, Ongi,” he said, and put his bags down to embrace me. I embraced him back.

 

He looked tired. He obviously hadn’t slept very well in the past days, if not the past few weeks. I was already coming up on week 3 of my creative sabbatical, so I knew I looked glowing—vibrant, even. My cheeks were flushed with color. I might have even put on a bit of weight.

 

“Come in,” I wanted to hug him again, but refrained and made my voice gentle and solicitous. “How did you get here?”

 

“Rented a car. It was nice, to drive out here. Rooney sat in the passenger seat.” He cooed into the watermelon.

 

“Is this all you brought?”

 

“I’ve got another small luggage in the car. But I figured I didn’t need much. We’re just going to hang out, right?”

 

Daniel’s face was a mix of eager and apprehensive. Eyes wide open, taking in his surroundings. He may have been, for whatever reason, as nervous as I was.

 

“You get to pick the room you want,” I said, avoiding the question. “I’ll show you the place.”

 

The guesthouse was a small converted gazebo in the backyard, spare with a bed of bamboo frame and a dresser. A bit drafty in the evenings, I explained, but that was what we had the heater and electric blankets for. My cousin’s room upstairs was better insulated, but the decor was a bit of an acquired taste. Over the years, it had been transformed into a gallery for my uncle’s paintings, and its formerly princessy scheme poked out between the frames on the wall, pink paint at odds with mass of traditional watercolors of fish, frogs, horses, cranes, and misty mountain vistas now inhabiting the walls.

 

It struck me then, the relative hominess and shabbiness of these rooms, this place, compared to our five-star digs in Seoul and all the places we had traveled by now. I was at once embarrassed and defiant, scanning Daniel’s face for any hint of snobbery that I’d intercept with a self-deprecating statement in a lightning moment— _sorry, maybe we could just clean it up a bit—you don’t have to stay here if you’ve changed your mind, I know it’s not what you might have been expecting—_

 

“Can I take this room?” He said this while looking at a painting of a bullfrog who was as sad and handsome as an aging prince. “It’s just that Rooney’s an indoor cat. And she’s been a little depressed since Peter passed away. It might be good for her to make some friends.” And with that, he laughed long and hard in the bullfrog’s face.

 

I looked around at the paintings. The paintings at eye level were from my uncle’s early days. Obviously copied from masterworks, the strokes were halting and somewhat clumsy, but his budding talent was obvious. As one gazed up to the ceiling or down to the floor, the paintings became more fluent and proficient in their animal forms and landscapes.

 

“It’s fine,” I smiled. “I’ll get your other bags from the car.” He protested, searching his pockets for the keys. I dangled them in his face and laughed at his startled expression. “Just relax here and get Rooney settled in. I’ll be back in a jiffy.”

 

“You’ve still got it, Ongi.”

 

“Never lost it,” I replied, and headed outside to the driveway. I unloaded a carry-on Samsonite from the trunk and scanned it to make sure that I hadn’t missed anything. The passenger’s seat was covered in cat hair and a half-drunk milkshake was gathering dew in the driver’s seat cupholder. The car was warming up in the sun, and the smell of leather was coming off the seats, mixing with Daniel’s cologne.

 

 _Never lost it_ , my words repeated in Daniel’s voice.

 

For better or worse, I really hadn’t.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

When you close your eyes, what comes to mind?

 

Not the next scene for this screenplay, that’s for sure. Scratch that. Not even the next line. Just rambling, incoherent sentences strung together syllable after syllable. Utter, mundane randomness. It’s only a mere coincidence that there is any syntax at all, that a human being reading this could put two and two together to read what is your attempt at a scene.

 

“Ongi,” Daniel’s voice jolts me out of my stupor. “G’morning.”

 

“It’s almost the afternoon, Niel.” I feel a smile spread over my face. Daniel’s in the same t-shirt he wore when he came in yesterday. Gym shorts bunched up from how he slept, wrinkles almost carved in the folds. In one arm he carries Rooney. Sets Rooney down on the floor. The cat wanders a few steps before bolting to a corner.

 

“She’s getting skittish in her old age,” he says, almost apologetically. Don’t worry Daniel, I want to say. I’m not taking it personally.

 

Daniel takes a seat in front of my desk. He looks one bad joke away from putting his feet up on the table, but if his pillow-wrinkled face is anything to go by, the fog of sleep still has yet to be cleared from his head. We both watch the cat for a while. It jumps around in the breeze that wafts through the open windows. It gets scared for no reason and starts to hiss, only to be calmed by the flutter of curtains. She tries to sharpen her nails, even though she doesn’t have any. Muscle memory buried deep somewhere.

 

I feel a sharp sting of pity. Meanwhile, Daniel yawns.

 

“You slept almost fourteen hours.”

 

“I know.” His slur is delightfully self-indulgent. Daniel grins in that eyes-shut way that makes him look eight years old, and wraps his arms around himself.

 

“Was good?”

 

“Was amazing. Best sleep in a long time.”

 

I almost ask about how his work has been going, but that would defeat the purpose—and the calm that’s descended on the room.

 

He nods off in the chair, chin touching his sternum. His breathing grows heavy and slow. The clouds part outside and the sun beams in through the window, sharpening everything in the study room in a terrible clarity. To my eyes, it looks like Daniel is a paper cutout, floating toward me millimeter by millemeter. I can see the faint hairs on his neck in the sun, the rhythm of his skin as it pulses with blood.

 

“Are you working?” He mumbles in a cotton-mouthed voice.

 

“Writing something.”

 

“What’s it.”

 

“Just something.”

 

“Screenplay innit.”

 

I grimace in the choice pleasure that comes with being found out by someone who knows you well. “How’d you guess?”

 

“Such a cliché,” Daniel giggles, head lolling uselessly on his chest. “What’s it about.”

 

“Clichés,” I retort. See if I ever told him.

 

“So she dies of cancer at the end.”

 

“Lung cancer and brain damage. Heavy smoker and car accident.”

 

“Comes back to life but maybe it’s her twin.”

 

“Her ex falls in love.”

 

“Then she comes back for real.” Daniel starts to giggle in earnest.

 

“Who will he choose?”

 

“The twin.”

 

“Who’s actually a man.”

 

Daniel’s laughing for real now. “And so was she.”

 

“Twist of the century.”

 

“Maybe not so cliché after all.”

 

“Good luck selling that to network television.”

 

“It’s your script,” Daniel laughs. “You’re the one who needs the luck.”

 

“Oh, right.” I scratch the back of my head, shooting my most boyish look at him. “I forgot about that.”

 

I’ll be twenty-eight this year. Technically, I am on the cusp of decency. But something about Daniel’s company makes me feel like I can get away with anything. Banish the thought.

 

Daniel asks me if what I want to do later today. I thought we could walk around the grounds, maybe. Something, at least, to keep me away from my phone. I played mobile games until I fell asleep last night. If I’m out and about, maybe I won’t be tempted. That is, if you aren’t too busy writing your screenplay. This he says with a smile that lights up my heart like fireworks in a summer sky.

 

We head to the kitchen to dig through the fridge. My uncle is in his studio, painting. A trot singer belts out show tunes from behind the door in a tinny ham radio whine. My aunt, meanwhile, has gone out to visit some friends and will be back after dinner. There’s a post-it note on the leftovers. _This is it. You’re not boys anymore, so if you want more, you can make your own goddamn food._

 

In the back of the fridge is a deflated and damp heap of tissue-thin plastic bag, inside of which is a container some-days-old kimchi jiggae that boasts a suspicious whiff of champagne. We swallow our questions and heat it up, chasing it with a shared bottle of Kirin. His fans would lynch me.

 

When I’m alone, I’m fine eating whatever there is. A meal of half a slice of cheese and a stale piece of bread washed down with some soy milk is fine by me. Plain spaghetti with salt and pepper and a raw egg if there’s no instant ramen to be found. With Daniel’s arrival, I can finally feel ashamed of my dietary habits.

 

Ten years ago, Kang Daniel’s friends fundraised nearly 267 million won to plaster his face all over Times Square for his twenty-third birthday. And all Ong Seongwoo can feed the once-king is some days old kimchi stew that has most likely gone off. We spend the afternoon in a tipsy stupor, waiting for stomach cramps that never come.

 

Daniel starts to laugh. I let him go on for a full minute before asking him what it is.

 

“Hard guts,” he manages between breaths.

 

“What’s that?”

 

“We’ve got,” he says, “hard guts.”

 

“Tough stomach, Daniel,” I correct him. “‘Hard guts’ is just weird.”

 

Alas, there’s something catchy about his phrasing. When it becomes clear that our hard guts don’t plan to let us down, we get dressed and head into town to buy ingredients for a fresh, home-cooked dinner.

 

* * *

 

 

 

After a week, I decide to take Daniel out to the peach grove. But just as we’re about to leave, we realize that we haven’t seen Rooney for the last three days.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh man, I just can’t leave these two alone. Last week I decided this might as well be a full blown thing that explores their past and present and integrates with its Scientific Methods prequel. Updates will come every weekend.
> 
> I have this love/hate thing with Ong—he’s incredibly annoying and attention-seeking IRL but also so visceral and charismatic that it’s hard not to slip into his POV. If you liked this chapter please leave some love—comments are massively appreciated too and keep me running like a full tank of gasoline (or a full charge, for those of you with electric cars). 
> 
> **Recs** : For anyone who wants to improve their own writing, I recommend checking out Wesleyan’s course on Creative Writing for guidance. It helped me jump into writing again after several years of not doing so. Don’t worry about the paywall; you can actually audit all Coursera courses for free. 
> 
> **Playlist** : Etta James & Ella Fitzgerald 
> 
> Thank you very much for reading! ❤️


	3. The Contract

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's what's written in the contract. Then there's everything else.

 

 

Ong Seongwoo is five years old, walking to school from the parking lot, his hand in Uncle Butler’s.

  
  
Uncle Butler has been working for the family for as long as Ong Seongwoo can remember. Uncle Butler is half uncle, half butler. In the mornings, he feeds Ong Seongwoo a real breakfast and when he takes him to school he gives him a piece of candy in his mouth to quiet him down. Ong Seongwoo is only five but even he understands that this is a kind of promise that Uncle Butler has made to him.     


  
Today the _bonbon du jour_  is a gummy bear the size of Ong Seongwoo’s pinky finger. Seongwoo sucks on the gummy bear instead of chewing it, this all happening behind closed lips and a smug smile. Oh, a part of him wants to chew very badly, like he usually would; but he doesn’t want to, even though no-one can see. Seongwoo sucks the life out of the little animal one sugar layer at a time, holding it in place between the guillotines of his teeth as it drains away into nothing.    
  


 

  
Since filming for Produce 101 began, Ong Seongwoo has seen Daniel’s face overcome with happiness, with nervousness, with frustration, with impatience. It’s only been two months, so he can’t say he’s seen every side of Daniel, but he’s definitely never seen this look: all at once eager and alert, and somehow slack. 

  
  
_But I haven’t signed the contract yet_ , Anastasia Steele gasps. Ong Seongwoo’s eyes flicker over Daniel’s lips, which are wet and slack. They’re awake when they shouldn’t be, but it’s a weekend, so they lie crunched up next to each other on the bunk bed, keeping as still as possible so as to not wake the others. They share a pair of headphones, backs hunched as they crunch themselves over Ong’s iPad. 

  
  
_Fuck the contract_ , Christian Grey says, and pushes Anastasia Steele against the wall. Daniel’s eyes flicker briefly over the subtitles, mouthing the words to himself before he swallows hard. Ong Seongwoo swallows too. 

  
  
It feels like they’re watching contraband films during a historical war. That the police will be beating down their doors any minute. The terror of being discovered kills Ong’s attempt at an erection, but if his swallowing and his heartrate is any indication of being turned on, then, well, he’s still pretty turned on.

  
  
Onscreen, Christian Grey presents Anastasia Steele with a shiny red Beemer. Daniel gasps. Ong pinches him to shut him up.

  
  
“So what are you guys watching, anyway?” Jaehwan announces from the other side of the room, looking up from his journal. He’s probably writing songs. Ong shoots him his most condescending expression, holding a finger up to his lips, _hush_.

  
  
Later, when they’re brushing their teeth, Ong tells Daniel that he shouldn’t be such a pervert. Daniel doesn’t even have the decency to repeat the insult back. He takes it like a champ, smiling a broad smile full of toothpaste foam.

  
  
“Would you?” Ong spits out into the sink. “With someone like Anastasia?”

  
  
“She’s not really my type,” Daniel says in between gargles. “Actually, I like older women.” 

  
  
Ong raises an eyebrow. “Really?” 

  
  
“Yeah, why not?” 

  
  
“What do you like about them?” 

  
  
“They know more.” Daniel looks him in the eye and holds Ong’s gaze, as if he were measuring what Ong was made of. Ong looks away first, but only because he needs to rinse his mouth one more time. Probably. 

  
  
Daniel asks Ong what kind of girls he likes. 

  
  
“Older,” Ong says. Now it’s Daniel’s turn to look surprised. 

  
  
“Really?”

  
  
“Really.” 

  
  
“Why?” 

  
  
Ong wiggles his eyebrows up and down.    


  
Daniel splashes water on his face and rubs it vigorously, his version of washing his face. Hey Ong, he says, looking at Ong through the mirror. Have you ever, you know?

  
  
Ong just keeps wiggling his eyebrows. Have you? Ong parries. He has the sudden image of Daniel getting lured into bed by some sophisticated older woman. Her, crooking a neatly manicured finger, drawing Daniel into her studio apartment. Daniel following like a puppy, eager to learn whatever it is that required teaching. Maybe she would be an office worker of some kind, tired and aching after a long day of presentations. Daniel, the food delivery boy. Cue saxophone. Fade to black. 

  
  
A few, Ong says. Daniel looks skeptical. What? Even if I didn’t, I’d still want to keep up my reputation as a noona slayer. Why, have you? 

  
  
Daniel looks wistful. There was a noona in his dance group. Still back in Busan. But she had a boyfriend.

  
  
Older women. The realm of dreams for them both, then. 

  
  
They finish washing up. “Fuck the contract,” Daniel says to his mirror-self in English, enunciating the syllables carefully. Ong can barely contain his laughter.    
  
  


* * *

 

  
  
The office lights are brighter than usual, the air is colder than usual, and the conference table seems twice as long as it normally does. In a neat little pile at one end of the table is Ong’s contract with YMC Entertainment. The contract is printed on thick, weighted paper. It has the feel of a stern, autobiographical manuscript to it, and forms a stack about the height of Ong’s thumb. 

  
  
Choi Dongmin is a scrappy-looking man with thinning hair and an attempt of a goatee which he claims his girlfriend is a fan of. For the most part, Ong is agreeable because it makes his own life easier, but on some days it’s harder than others to believe what Choi Dongmin tells him. 

  
  
Today, Dongmin is wearing a starched blue shirt and khakis and his pointiest brown oxfords, which is something of a red flag. Dongmin dresses like a management consultant on days where he has to handle legal contracts—his way of infusing confidence into the song and dance. Dongmin assures him that the contract is solid. Bulletproof. There’s nothing to worry about. That Ong is welcome to come take a look to double-check details, but that more or less it comes down to this: Ong Seongwoo will be signed with YMC Entertainment as a part of Wanna One from the sign date until December 2018. During that time, YMC Entertainment will have full rights over Ong Seongwoo’s activities and schedule. Ong Seongwoo agrees to appear in music videos, advertisements, photo shoots, and other promotions in addition to his musical activities. Should Ong Seongwoo reneg on his contract and back out of Wanna One for any reason, YMC will be entitled to keep any earnings that Ong Seongwoo has generated, and Ong Seongwoo will be required to forfeit all potential earnings from music sales and promotional activities still on air.

  
  
But you’re not gonna back out, are you? Dongmin searches Ong’s face as he says this. Because it’d be a big problem for us and more importantly for you if you did. If you back out anytime it should be now. Ong’s mouth is dry because the office is dry and he’s been dehydrated all day, but it could also be from the nervousness. He wasn’t even this nervous when he signed with Fantagio. 

  
  
Ong says he needs a day or two to think about it, to review the contract for himself. Dongmin encourages him to take one day. It’s the chance you’ve been waiting for, Dongmin says. He does sound happy for Ong, but he also sounds like he wants this to be signed so he can get his bonus. Ong says he needs two days. 

  
  
Ong gets through about ten pages that night before he falls asleep. When he wakes up the next morning, the contract is on his bedside table next to him full of red lines and Uncle Butler’s impeccable script in the margins. 

  
  
The contract goes through some back and forth and ends up being signed after 6 business days. By the following week, Ong, with the help of Uncle Butler, has managed to eke out an additional 8% in royalties and promotional earnings for himself, which isn’t shabby. When he’s done, he calls Niel. 

  
  
Did you sign? Niel asks immediately. 

  
  
Yeah.

  
  
In the background, Niel’s mother says something in a loud voice. Yes, it’s Ong. I don’t know, I’ll ask him. Hey Ong, my mom wants to know if you negotiated. 

  
  
Ong says he did.

  
  
So now it’s official. 

  
  
Ong says it is.    


  
Niel yelps, happiness obvious in his voice.    


  
What, was it not official when we won? 

  
  
I’ll see you next week, Niel says, voice raised an octave in excitement, breath a wheeze. I’ll see you next week. Can’t believe it. Hey, I gotta go, we’re having dinner, but we’ll talk soon. I mean, I’ll see you soon. Next week! 

  
  
Ong hangs up, almost dropping his phone. His knees are bent, his palms are sweaty.    
  
  


 

* * *

  
  
  
November in Hong Kong is like May in Seoul. The weather is warm and humid, and the smell of the sea is in the air. 

  
  
Their stage is still being built even while they practice; porters build the stage from bamboo poles, like agile monkeys. They all block out the sound of the commotion and the construction as best they can and focus on the dancing at hand. With the humidity and the heat, it’s impossible not to work up a sweat. 

  
  
After they finish running through the routine for _Energetic_ , there’s not a single dry face in the crowd. For the next few songs they conserve their energy, moving in slow, half-hearted movements. Even the creative director doesn’t push them, probably because he’s exhausted and sweaty and uncomfortable himself. Trusting that they know the moves, he lets them off early to go back to the hotel.

  
  
Daniel has wrapped a towel around his forehead to soak up the sweat. He looks like a Japanese chef. Ong tells him so, as they pack up. The camera cozies up to Daniel and he goes into a speech, half improvised, half goaded on by Ong, about how he’s always dreamed of being a sushi chef in Hong Kong. He mimes putting together a nigiri and serves it to the cameraman, who smiles and then moves onto its next target. 

  
  
“That was pretty good,” Ong says admiringly. Daniel’s acting skills have only improved since they’d started working together. His poker face needs some work—he still always looks as if he’s just about to let the audience in on the joke. 

 

Daniel raises his hand for a sweaty high-five. Their hands meet in a resounding _thwack_.

  
  
Back at the hotel, they shower and order room service. After dinner, Ong feels like a real person again. His phone buzzes as he’s toweling off his hair. It’s Ha Sungwoon in the group chat—he and Jaehwan are going to see if they can sneak out of the W and explore the mall. Rumor is that there’s a park on the grounds with a playground and a great view of the harbor. Who wants to join? 

  
  
Ong wants to ask Daniel if he wants to come. He goes into Daniel and Minhyun’s room. But Daniel is already fast asleep, fist clenched on the duvet cover. He looks like a little kid, five years old and napping with his blanket. Minhyun is reading, glasses perched at the end of his nose. Ong asks Minhyun. Minhyun whispers back—did the producers give you permission? 

  
  
Not really, Ong says. There wasn’t anything in our contracts that said we’re required to surrender our free will during overseas engagements. Just in Korea.

  
  
Minhyun waves Ong away with one hand and turns the page of his book with the other. The conversation is over.

  
  
“Looks like it’s just us,” Ong says to Jaehwan and Sungwoon. They make it a hundred feet from the entrance of the hotel before they’re found out and a sudden mob of fans chases them back to the W. As they catch their breath back in the elevators, Ong realizes that if Daniel had been with them they would have been caught much sooner.    
  
  


 

* * *

 

  
  
_*pock*_

  
  
Ong feels something hit the back of his head. He scrubs a hand through and finds an orange styrofoam bullet the size of a mini sausage lodged in his locks. When he turns around, there’s Kang Daniel with a shit-eating grin the size of the entire county holding a bright green and blue plastic excuse for a semi-automatic.     


  
“I know you’re happy to see me, but taking your gun out of your pants is just rude.”    


  
Daniel responds by firing a Nerf bullet straight into Ong’s mouth, and the game is on.    


  
Ong leaps over the coffee table where Jisung and Woojin are slurping at their second bowl of ramyeon that day. His knee gives out a little at the impact, but he tucks himself into a roll, banging against a cabinet, before he hops up and races over to the sports equipment wall and grabs the only gun that’s left—a pink and purple plastic monstrosity that looks more like a sex toy than a Nerf gun. He winks into the camera positioned eye-level atop the punching bag before letting out a high-pitched yodel and chasing after Daniel.      


  
They chase each other, dispensing bullets and insults when Ong trips over the landing, crashes into Daniel and sends them both fumbling over the net into Bae Jinyoung’s ball pit room. Jinyoung’s head bolts up out of the pit and his foot lands a blow on Daniel’s chest.    


  
“What the _fuck_.” Bae Jinyoung splutters, as Daniel heaves and tries to introduce air back into his lungs. 

  
  
“We’re sorry,” Ong puts on his most mollifying expression, but he can’t help laughing. 

  
  
“Assholes,” Jinyoung scrambles up, knocking Ong’s gun over the netting. It clatters on the ground and styrofoam bullets spray over the carpet. “Get out of my room.”

  
  
“Seriously, C9—” Ong lowers his voice in warning. “It was an accident.”   


  
“Someone’s cranky,” Daniel adds, sounding nervous.    


  
Jinyoung rolls his eyes and stands up, imposing his lanky height over them. “Just because I’m young doesn’t give you the right to jump all over me.”   


  
“Oh come on, Baejinnie,” Daniel throws an orange ball at him. “We were just messing around. We’re sorry.”   


  
“Ooh. I’m Kang Daniel and I’m in love with Ong Seongwoo for the likes,” he mimics in a high-pitched whine. 

  
  
Something in Daniel’s face slams shut. Ong grits his teeth. He’s amazed he’s still smiling, but there’s a camera dangerously close and focused right on them. 

  
  
“Watch it, C9.”   


  
“ _You guys_  watch it,” Jinyoung scoffs. “And get a hotel if you’re going to ‘horse around.’ It’s already gross enough watching you jerks jerk each other off on camera every day with all your gay ass fanservice.”    


  
Zero Base goes so quiet you can hear Rooney and Peter purring from Daniel’s room. Ong thinks that now would be a good time to get out of the ball pit and walk away. Except it’s snowing outside, and Ong doesn’t want to interrupt his dramatic exit by stopping by his room to grab his coat.    


  
Luckily for Ong, Section 229 of the Korean Communications Decency Act states that “inappropriate content such as expletives and sexual contact will be subject to at-will censorship at the discretion of the broadcasting network.” So even though the cameras in Zero Base are rolling, Ong goes right on ahead and informs Bae Jinyoung with a winning smile that he’s a budding asshole extraordinnaire. And that if he’s ever so _full of shit_  again and even so implies that Ong is a cocksucker so help him God, Bae “C9” Jinyoung better trade his stunt coach for a real one, because Ong is not going to pull his punches.    


  
Bae Jinyoung’s head shrinks so far back into his turtleneck his head looks like it’s going to recede into yesterday. Ong stares down the ball pit camera, daring it to make a move. It swivels away. 

  
  
Later that night, Ong finds Daniel in the bathroom, brushing his teeth on autopilot. Ong wishes that Daniel would grin and sling an arm around him and tell him that what he did was okay, but they just stand next to each other brushing their teeth vacantly.

  
  
“You really told him off.” Daniel says finally, after he’s spit and rinsed and mouthwashed and brushed his hair and moisturized. “Which is good for him, I guess. He’s been a little out of line lately.”    


  
It’s more than Ong’s nerves that are tweaked, but he nods vigorously. Mind over matter. Will over impulse. If this is the best Daniel can do, it’s what Ong should take because it’s the best that he’ll have.    


  
“It’s cool,” Ong replies, not sure who he’s saying it to, or even if it’s a proper response to what Daniel just said. “It’s cool.”    
  
  


 

* * *

 

 

  
  
Ong almost feels bad about lying. But them’s the rules.

  
  
_Master Key_ —the game is like a more aesthetic version of Mafia: out of the thirteen contestants, one of them is the Angel and one of them is the Devil. Nobody else knows who the Angel and the Devil are. One has to convince the others that they’re the Angel. By the end, one accrues votes. If the Angel accrues the most votes, everyone gets a reward. If an individual who is neither Angel nor Devil gets the most votes, they get the reward but no-one else does. If the Devil gets the most votes—well, then they get the whole shebang and then some. 

  
  
_Master Key_ —a round of celebrities playing games of truth or dare and moving rank and file, eldest to youngest, in a staged drama of respect and fondness. All of the elders on the show baby Ong and Daniel, Daniel especially. And they couldn’t *not*—not with the way that Daniel’s innocence and goodness shines through. 

  
  
For his youth and his good looks, Ong also gets a free pass. They all believe Ong when he tells them he’s the Angel. Daniel, especially, who goes along with Ong’s schemes and play acting like it’s second nature.    
  


Ong almost feels bad about lying to Daniel but he tells himself that this is just a part of the gig, part of the job, part of the contract an actor has with the audience.   
  


In the van back to Zero Base, this is what Ong tells Daniel in a flurry of hand gestures. Daniel has been nursing a wounded expression since the results were revealed and Ong collected the final reward all for himself.

  
  
“I didn’t want to lie,” Ong says. “Really.”   


  
“You had fun, at least.” Daniel is trying to let go of the issue, trying to leave it in yesterday, but Ong doesn’t want to leave it like this.    


  
“What do you think you would have done?”    


  
“I don’t know,” Daniel shrugs off Ong’s hand on his shoulder. “I’d probably have lied, too. But I don’t think I would have done as good a job as you.”    


  
“Do you remember what you said on Produce 101? That an idol has to be good at everything?”    


  
“Yeah, I remember.”    


  
“Shows like this are just an opportunity to practice. To get better at acting, to build relationships with our sunbaenims in the industry, to show our talents.”    


  
“I guess.”    


  
“I’m sure you’ll get the Devil key next time, and everyone will vote for you.” Ong is aware that he’s chattering, but he can’t stop himself. He tries surefire gimmicks: winks, aegyo, flattery, dirty jokes, but Daniel doesn’t smile, doesn’t laugh, doesn’t take the bait. The expressway feels like the emptiest road in the country.   


  
Ong is depressed for days when Daniel pretends like nothing has happened the next day. A week later, when they’re on the road again early in the morning to film another episode of _Master Key_ , he tells Daniel he’s sorry.    


  
“For what?” Daniel blinks. It might be surprise or it might be lack of sleep—both expressions are suspiciously similar on Daniel.    


  
“For last week.”    


  
“Oh, Ongi.”    


  
“I didn’t want to lie to you. Really.”   


  
Daniel puts a hand on his shoulder and squeezes reassuringly. “It’s just a game. I was really tired and grumpy after filming. I’m sorry if I gave you the wrong impression.”    


  
“‘Niel. I was like, 500% sure that our friendship was over.” Ong goes for a joker’s smile but he feels strangely emotional.    


  
“Really?”   


  
“Yeah.”    


  
“Seriously?”   


  
“I ain’t lyin’. Look into my eyes. Would I ever lie about something actually important?”    


  
“Dude,” Daniel laughs. “And I thought Sungwoon-hyung was the drama queen.”    


  
“I think it goes me, Lee Daehwi, and then Ha Sungwoon. Please pay your respects to the queens properly.”   


  
“May the best man win today,” Daniel says.    


  
“May the best man win.” Ong wrinkles his nose.    
  
  


 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's finally posted!! A big thank you to everyone who waited — it came a bit later than I expected, but there were so many kinks to work out and I wanted to make sure that the theme was cohesive, so I waited for a while to post it. Hopefully the next chapter comes along sooner. 
> 
> This chapter was so much fun to write with all the dipping in and out of Ong's memories. If anyone can spot the moment that intersected with [Scientific Methods: Double Blind](http://archiveofourown.org/works/13133415/chapters/30042567), you win a prize! :-)


End file.
